


Vibration White Finger

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-28
Updated: 2009-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean had always known the chainsaw would come in handy eventually. (sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/22852"><strong>ashtray floors, dirty clothes, and filthy jokes</strong></a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vibration White Finger

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sara for looking it over.

"What the fuck?" Sam muttered, swiping soaking wet hair out of his eyes and glaring down at the still-twitching body of the fucking kraken where it lay on the wet sand. "We can't just leave this here, Dean. The spines in the tentacles are poisonous."

"Don't worry, Sammy. We're gonna set it on fire. Don't want it regenerating, either."

"Regenerating?" Sam looked sick at the idea, so Dean figured he got a point for it.

Dean shrugged. "It looks kinda like a giant starfish, right?"

"Ugh."

"Smells like ass, though. Jesus." The smell reminded him of hell, rotting fish and sewage and old blood. Dean dipped his head into the collar of his t-shirt for a minute to get control of his gag reflex, the scent of cheap detergent and his own sweat familiar and comforting. "Come on, let's get it out of the water, or it's never gonna burn."

Sam didn't look any happier at that. He raised and lowered his hands helplessly. "The thing is the size of a car, Dean. How the hell are we supposed to move it?"

Dean grinned. He'd always known the chainsaw would come in handy eventually.

He didn't run back to the car, but only because his jeans were soaked and the chafing was pretty harsh, but he pretended it was because he was cool and not at all excited about getting to use his new toy. He grabbed the gloves, the foam ear plugs, and the two pairs of safety goggles Sam had insisted on--he didn't really want a face full of kraken blood, and he was man enough to admit it. (That shit could be poisonous. Who knew?) He shoved it all, plus the can of kerosene and the canister of salt (not that the thing wasn't already brined from the ocean, but Dean didn't want to take chances), into a duffle bag and carried it back to where Sam was standing guard over the dead kraken.

He tossed one set of safety precautions to Sam, and then pulled on his own gloves and goggles.

"You think it's like a shark?" he asked, kicking at one of the shiny, scaly tentacles and thinking of days spent in front of the television for Shark Week. "Or am I gonna hit bone?"

Sam shuddered again, and with his hoodie soaked black and the goggles on, he looked like some kind of giant alien bug trying to shed its chiton or spread its wings. The movement made Dean's belly twitch in something that might have been memory, or might have been fear. He ignored it.

Instead, he gave the chainsaw a little caress, murmured (softly, so Sam couldn't hear), "You're gonna be awesome, baby. I know it." And then he started it.

Even with the ear plugs, the noise was loud, and the vibration rattled his bones, reminding him of things he didn't want to think about.

The saw cut through the tentacles like a hot knife through butter, smooth and easy, and black blood sprayed out, warm and thick, hitting Dean in the face and chest. The stench of decay was overwhelming, but Dean was clearheaded enough to turn the chainsaw off before he doubled over and started retching.

Everything in hell had reeked of blood; it had soaked and oozed and spattered into every nook and cranny, and once he'd been the one causing the bloodshed instead of the one taking it, he'd never been able to get clean or free of the smell, the taste of it on his tongue, the sticky feeling of it under his nails and in the creases of his joints. The feel of it now made him want to claw the skin off his face, just to get rid of the sensation.

Sam dropped to the sand beside him, one giant hand on his shoulder, one on his back, comforting even though Dean couldn't feel their warmth through his jacket. He muttered vague things Dean couldn't hear over the sound of his stomach trying to turn itself inside out, backed by the loud crash of the incoming tide. Still, Dean appreciated the effort more than he could, or would, ever say.

His eyes were watery and his throat was raw when he was done, stomach empty and finally agreeable to not trying to crawl up his esophagus anymore. He sat back on the sand, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe.

"Hey, hey," Sam said, brushing Dean's hair off his forehead, both pairs of goggles discarded on the sand beside them. Sam dabbed at the blood flecking Dean's face and Dean drew in shuddering, choking breaths and let him. "Here." Sam shoved a bottle of water at him and Dean drank. He swished it around in his mouth and spat, then took a long pull, the water lukewarm but soothing against his aching throat.

When he was done with the water, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his flask. After a bracing belt of Jack, he cleared his throat and said, "I told you those burritos tasted funny." His voice sounded raspy and he didn't meet Sam's gaze.

Sam opened and closed his mouth, lips tightening just enough to let Dean know he was biting back whatever he wanted to say. Just before the silence got really uncomfortable, he said "Yeah," letting the lie stand. Dean gave him a weak grin that was half apology and half thanks. "You want me to--" Sam gestured at the chainsaw and the kraken carcass, still splayed out on the sand like Jack Sparrow's worst nightmare.

"I got it, Sammy." He heaved himself up off the ground, feeling every one of those extra forty years he'd gained in hell, and shook the sand out of his goggles before pulling them back on. He needed to do this, for reasons he'd probably never be able to articulate, though he was sure Sam would have a field day doing armchair psychoanalysis. "I wanna set this shit on fire."

"Okay." Sam nodded, though the look on his face was skeptical. He stepped back out of spray range as Dean fired up the chainsaw again, and Dean was glad. He didn't want any of this touching Sam anymore than it already had. Not if he could help it.

When he'd finally dismembered the thing--and he managed without puking again, though he had a close call when he cut into the body and the guts came spilling out like a nest of slippery grey snakes--they piled up the all the pieces and sprinkled them with salt. Sam emptied the kerosene over it and Dean tossed the book of matches into a puddle of it in the center.

They both stepped back, trying not to gag on the oily rotten-fish scented smoke that rose up in black spirals as the kracken burned.

Dean climbed the dunes, feeling Sam at his back in the shift and give of the sand under his feet, and they sat together, watching and waiting until the fire consumed the creature. The smoke stung Dean's eyes, and he was glad to have something to blame the tears on. They passed the flask of bourbon between them, trying to wash the awful taste out of their mouths.

"Dude," said Dean as the fire finally began dying out, "I'm never eating calamari again."

Sam laughed and bumped his shoulder against Dean's gently. "Me, neither."

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Vibration white finger: Raynaud's disease especially when caused by severe vibration (as in prolonged and repeated use of a chain saw) [[source](http://medical.merriam-webster.com/medical/vibration%20white%20finger)]


End file.
